The Poisoned Apple

The writing prompt - Write from the perspective of a broken, inanimate object
The result - The Poisoned Apple

Her collapse didn’t happen all at once. For weeks, she felt something was wrong. His marathon training was ramping up, and she knew he just needed someone in his ear, encouraging him, keeping him motivated. She wasn’t too old to understand what he needed, despite the miles of their shared past.


Yet nothing she was saying was quite right.

She could sense his disappointment, even in his silence.

At first, her words just came out a little slowly. The right sentiments were being expressed, but something was just a little off in the delivery. There were days she knew that he was questioning his ears as much as her voice. Sweating profusely from a run, even after being inside for an eternity, it was impossible to tell if the error in the words was his or hers.

Trying to speak through molasses, she struggled to say the right thing, to let him know that his effort was paying off, that he was improving. But now even her words were wrong. Confused and angry, she pressed on, her words becoming more inarticulate and jumbled. What was happening? It was clear, so clear in her mind. How could the perfectly produced thoughts sound so disjointed?

He knew he wasn’t imagining it anymore. He would have to leave her behind. With regret, he pulled the tiny, black plugs from his ears, letting them dangle from his fingers for just another moment. He peeled the sweat-soaked armband from his upper arm, looking down with regret, wondering for an instant if the humidity and his salty sweat had concocted a deadly cocktail that had seeped slowly past the protective polyprene barrier.

The jittery static of her voice faded as he dropped her, rather tenderly, onto the worn kitchen table. His iPod was dead.

(Red Writing Hood visitors - I'll be without internet access for most of the weekend.  I will read and comment Monday!)